


the rhythm

by feeltripping



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, F/F, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8007553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feeltripping/pseuds/feeltripping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>filled prompt for:</p><p>Clarke and Lexa clubbing, Clarke with a strap on. </p><p>Slightly toppy Lexa, no d/s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the rhythm

“Themed party,” Clarke quotes accusingly. Over the line, Octavia sighs. 

“Yes, Clarke. Costumes mandatory.”

“Costumes!” Clarke says, “ _Mandatory_.”

“Are we going to read the whole invitation together, or can you just cut to your criticisms.”

“We are,” Clarke begins, and Octavia sighs again, “fully grown adults. Do we really need to dress up like we’re in college to--”

“Clarke.” Octavia’s voice is firm. “It’s Halloween. And my birthday.”

“It’s not your birthday.”

“My birthday month,” Octavia amends. “Do I need to send you receipts on how much I dropped on this club for bottle service and our own booth area? Because they’re digital, and I can email them to you right now.” Clarke scoffs. “Just take Lexa shopping, I’m sure you’re going to come in matching costumes, you gross gay nerds.”

Clarke grumbles, wordless. “Fine. But this counts as your birthday present.”

“You already gave me a birthday present.”

“That was from Lexa,” Clarke tells her, smug when Octavia gasps in betrayal. “She just put both our names on it.”

“You bitch,” Octavia says, and hangs up.

++

Lexa sighs, big, then frowns a little. “Costumes,” she mutters. She brightens slightly. “Octavia is your friend, so--”

Clarke folds her arms across her chest. “If I have to dress up you have to dress up.” She spins her keys around one finger, vaguely threatening.

Lexa goes sulky for just a moment, then sighs. “Very well.”

 

“How about this?” Lexa looks at the packaged costume for a second. Then she looks at Clarke. “Kidding,” Clarke says with a sigh, hanging it back on the hook. “Isn’t it hilarious how women in my profession are sexualized instead of respected. Ha ha.”

Lexa curls her lip at a large pyramid of frankly blindingly orange pumpkin decorations. “Let’s find something,” she says, determined, and marches into the stacks, Clarke trailing. 

“Veto,” Clarke says, when Lexa finds a generic soldier kit. 

“No,” Lexa says, flat, when Clarke holds up a small package of cat whiskers and black grease makeup. 

Clarke sighs. Then she sees something behind the sexy princess minidress and brightens. “Hey!” She waves the hat at Lexa, who blinks at her, still frowning faintly, and Clarke points to a picture on the back of a display.

“I have a suit already,” Lexa reminds her. 

“Sure,” Clarke agrees. “And so do I. We’ll just, you know, buy a couple of these hats and some shoes and call it a day.”

Lexa frowns. “It won’t be cheap, if you want it to look good.”

Clarke shrugs. “Yeah, but we’ll look hot.” She waggles her eyebrows. “And I’ll make it worth your while.”

Lexa steps closer. “Oh?” She’s in jeans and sneakers, her hoodie big enough the sleeves slide over her hands, and Clarke tugs at the strings, teasing. 

“Yeah. I should reward you for being such a good sport, going clubbing with me on your weekend off.”

“Octavia is your friend,” Lexa agrees. She bites her lip, faintly eager. “How are you going to make it up to me?”

Clarke thumps a fedora over her head. “You’ll see,” she says, and giggles when Lexa smiles, the hat dipping over her eyes.

++

Clarke pulls up in front of Raven’s and asks the Uber driver to honk the horn. Raven emerges after a minute, grinning, and slides into the backseat beside her. “Hey,” Clarke says, admiring, “lookin’ sharp, Reyes.”

“I know.” Raven looks Clarke up and down. “You too, dollface.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says. “Pinstripes too much? It’s a rental.”

“Perfect,” Raven assures her, fiddling with her phone. “Where’s your partner in crime?”

“Had a meeting out of town. She’ll meet us there.”

Raven leans forward, giving the driver the address, then settles back. “We’re going to sweat balls in that club,” she mutters, “who wants a costume party at a club?”

Clarke shrugs. “Birthday month.” The car takes a turn just as Raven twists, leaning close to snap a selfie, and Raven falls into her with a yelp.

“Sorry,” she starts, and then pauses, one hand braced in Clarke’s lap to push herself up. “Really, Clarke?”

Clarke blushes, bright. “It’s not like I thought you were going to grope me,” she hisses. “Not a word about this, I mean it.”

“I already texted Octavia,” Raven says, shrugging. Clarke’s phone vibrates in her pocket and Clarke sighs.

++

The club is loud and booming and rolling, even if it’s still a little early for the club scene, and Clarke laughs when she sees Octavia and Lincoln, matching, Lincoln not looking at all put upon or embarrassed, smiling wide and holding Octavia close.

She hugs Octavia, already starting to sweat in her suit jacket, and they sit for a few minutes, drinking and giggling and greeting people as they trickle in. Clarke declines an invitation to dance, sitting on the couch with a drink and relaxing, watching her friends with a soft smile.

A hand slides across her shoulder, familiar, and Clarke’s smile widens. “Hey baby,” she says, teasing, and Lexa dips to kiss her. “Let me look at you.” They stand, scrutinizing. Lexa’s suit isn’t pinstripe, and it’s more expensive than Clarke’s rental, high quality fabric dark, tailored. She went all out, crisp ironed shirt and bright red tie, her makeup heavy and smokey, suspenders peeking out from behind the buttoned jacket. 

“You look good,” Lexa murmurs, low. She touches the rim of Clarke’s fedora. “You got a gun in that jacket?”

“I’m just happy to see you,” Clarke says, smiling with her tongue between her teeth. “Dance with me?”

Maybe she can forgive Octavia this ridiculous party, Clarke thinks, as she and Lexa throw back a shot together and kiss, tequila on their tongues. Maybe she should thank Octavia, Clarke thinks, when she dances with the beat thumping in her chest and Lexa pressed against her in the dark, the colored lights flashing over their bodies when Lexa drops her hands to Clarke’s waist and slides her leg between Clarke’s thighs. 

Lexa arches an eyebrow at her. “What’s this?” She murmurs, crowding closer. Clarke’s back hits the wall. They’re on a small platform, reserved for their party only, and most of their friends have made their way out onto the larger dance floor. Lexa trails curious fingers across the crotch of Clarke’s pants, hitting something bulging and rigid. 

“Didn’t I say I was happy to see you?” Clarke grins; Lexa’s mouth drops faintly open slack. She swallows.

“All night?” She asks. “We could--”

“We’re not leaving early.” Clarke thrusts her hips up, once. “You know what I thought about, when I put this on?”

Lexa slumps against her, nipping at Clarke’s ear. “Tell me,” she growls.

“Teasing you. All night. Every song, every drink.” Clarke rocks forward, dropping her hands to Lexa’s thighs and yanking her close. “Until you beg me, and we go home.” Lexa drags in a breath, ragged, and Clarke’s heart hammers. Her voice drops, lower and lower, rumbling. “Bed, you think? Or couch? The floor, maybe. Or I could fuck you against the closed door, if we can’t wait.”

“Fuck,” Lexa says, punched out of her. She shoves Clarke back, hard, and kisses her, teeth and tongue, biting hard. She licks down Clarke’s throat, sloppy and messy, and bites wetly at Clarke’s shirt at the base of her neck. Her hips rock, eager. 

Clarke winds her hands through Lexa’s hair, their hats bumping together, awkward and jostling. She moans, soft, when Lexa drops her head, nudging her jacket open with clever fingers and sucking at her breasts through layers of fabric. “Lexa,” she gasps, clutching her closer. 

“Gross,” Raven says, from two feet away. Lexa stills, her face still bowed and hidden. “Dance with me, Griffin, I need a winglady.”

Lexa growls, then sighs. Clarke kisses her once, flirty. “Later,” she promises.

++

Clarke dances with Raven, and Octavia, and Lincoln, and Bellamy, and Lexa always, in between and during, locking eyes and licking lips. Lexa presses at her back, pulling Clarke against her, her hat gone somewhere and her head dipped, licking at Clarke’s neck. She surges, aggressive and uncaring of other people’s eyes, a hand splayed possessively at Clarke’s belly. She bites down, hard, and Clarke’s knees buckle. 

“Damn,” Octavia says, shouting to be heard over the music. “Get a room, guys, I need to be the center of attention.”

Lexa leads Clarke away, her grip firm and tight, and she shucks her suit jacket as they pass the couches, leaving her in a white button up shirt, stuck to her skin with sweat and wrinkled, her tie hanging loose. Clarke slows, thinking about Lexa sitting under her on the couch, their hips grinding, but Lexa pulls at her again, moving past the VIP rope strung across a doorway with a murmur to the bouncer that Clarke can’t quite catch, pointing back to Octavia. The bouncer nods, letting them through, and Lexa tightens her grip. 

The music is slightly muffled, echoing, and Clarke grins when Lexa presses her against a closed door to kiss her, desperate. “Feeling heated, baby?”

Lexa grins at her, all teeth, and Clarke falls backwards as the door opens, Lexa steadying her as she pushes them inside. Lexa kicks the door shut, flipping the lock. It’s a bathroom, single stall, and clean, for a club. “Sorry baby,” Lexa hums, turning Clarke around and pressing her against the cold wall belly first. She bites the back of Clarke’s neck, hard, until Clarke yelps at the sharp pricks of pain, then licks, sloppy, at her teethmarks. “Can’t wait,” Lexa murmurs. She pulls Clarke’s jacket half off, trapping her arms, and holds them behind Clarke’s back as she pushing her hips into Clarke’s ass. 

“Fuck,” Clarke breathes, going on her tiptoes when Lexa nips at a particular sensitive spot under her ear. “Lex--” Lexa grinds her knee between her legs from behind and Clarke loses her train of thought on a moan. Lexa jerks her hips, humping, and Clarke knocks into the wall, writhing. 

“Still want to make me wait?” Lexa licks the curve of her ear, panting, and Clarke shudders. 

“No,” she manages, “changed my mind.” Lexa hums, pleased, and throws Clarke’s jacket on the floor, where it flops over where her hat had fallen when Lexa shoved her against the wall. 

Lexa plucks at her shirt, plastered to Clarke’s back. “Take this off.” Clarke fumbles at the buttons, yanking clumsily, and when the last one parts Lexa pulls it off her. Clarke braces her palms on the wall and Lexa trails fire down her spine, nipping and kissing and licking, murmuring into Clarke’s bare skin. The wall is cold against her front, and Clarke moans, continuously, when Lexa kneels to mouth at the small of her back, biting through her pants to her ass. 

“Stop,” she pants, and Lexa stops, stands. Clarke turns, looping an arm around Lexa’s shoulder, and Lexa goes, pliant, when Clarke turns her until Lexa is the one pressed against the wall, her eyes dark and wide and hopeful. Clarke undoes the front of Lexa’s pants and shoves them halfway down her thighs, before working on her own fly, pulling the strap on free. Lexa shivers, almost violent, to see it laid out on Clarke’s palm. “Show me,” Clarke murmurs, low. 

Lexa spreads her legs as much as she can, whining when her pants prevent a wide stance. She pulls her panties to the side and when Clarke slides into her her body shakes, wracked with shivers; her head tilts back to rest against the wall, her chest heaving. It’s almost awkward, their heights not quite right, the angle not ideal, but Lexa wraps a leg up on Clarke’s waist, Clarke’s hand under her thigh, and Clarke fucks her against the wall, slow at first until Lexa’s hands scrabble at her back, her ass, demanding in her harsh breaths, and Clarke speeds up, the music fading in her ears until all she hears is Lexa’s pleading noises and her own desperate grunts. “Fuck,” she manages, sliding all the way in and grinding in small hard circles. 

Lexa arches, spasming as she comes. Her knees buckle and she slides down the wall until Clarke catches her, steadying, pulling out with an obscenely wet noise. “Clarke,” Lexa says, still ragged, and they kiss lazy. Clarke shifts, restless and turned on, and Lexa touches her cheek, gentle. “Hold on,” she murmurs, and once again Clarke finds herself pressed against the wall, still warm from Lexa’s body. Lexa yanks up her pants with a faint grimace, not bothering to do the button or zip, and goes to her knees, Clarke’s lipstick smeared across her face, her skin shining with sweat. She slips her mouth around the head of the dildo, dangling on Clarke’s hips, and Clarke groans. She starts to slip a finger under the harness to press on her clit and Lexa growls, stopping her. 

“Lexa,” Clarke pleads, and Lexa pulls back to smirk, the toy resting against her cheek, shining with Lexa’s slick. 

“How turned on are you,” she murmurs, and Clarke twitches, “from fucking me? All that pressure, movement, grinding on your clit.” Clarke whines, twisting. “Can you come untouched? I think you can.”

“Fuck,” Clarke says, choked, and Lexa takes the whole toy in her mouth, her throat working as she swallows around it, breathing from her nose. She hollows her cheeks, tasting herself, and Clarke squeezes her eyes shut, overwhelmed, until Lexa growls, demanding. She pinches Clarke’s hip and Clarke forces her eyes open. She lays her hands on Lexa’s head, cradling, and makes another pleading, desperate noise. Lexa lets her mouth fall open, stringing drool, and nods. Clarke tightens her grip, twisting her fingers in Lexa’s hair, and fucks her mouth, her hips jerking erratically, punishingly, and comes with Lexa’s soft choking noises in her ears.

 

“Jesus,” Clarke says, a full minute later. “Jesus Christ.”

Lexa hums, still suckling softly at the toy, and pulls away with one last long lick. She props Clarke against the wall and tucks her away, buttoning her pants over the strap on. She moves Clarke’s arms into her shirt and does it up, then the suit jacket, while Clarke leans heavily against her, pliant and loose and floaty. Lexa adjusts Clarke’s collar and sets her hat on her head at a jaunty angle. “Gorgeous,” she says, pleased and smug, and wets a paper towel to clean up their faces. 

“Uber,” Clarke says, a few brain cells lining up long enough to communicate a coherent thought. “Home.”

“We’ll be leaving early.” Lexa doesn’t sound too put out about missing the rest of the night, and when they leave the bathroom she links her fingers with Clarke, comforting. Clarke is back to herself by the time they track down Octavia at the bar, downing a shot. 

Octavia rolls her eyes, but she smiles and hugs them and thanks them for coming, and Clarke slips Lincoln a hundred dollars to help with what is no doubt turning into an impressive tab. Clarke is saying goodbye to Raven when Lexa crowds close. “Gonna get you home and ride you until you pass out,” she says, low and whispered, promising, and then moves to hug Lincoln just as Clarke’s knees give out and she crashes against Raven, almost toppling them both.

**Author's Note:**

> I was sitting on this but I don't think it's gonna get any better, so. Sorry if it feels choppy or abrupt.
> 
> catch me on tumblr @ feeltripping


End file.
